Her finger traced the bumps again. “I’m getting used to you touching it,” he whispered.
“Zach.” Her voice was full of wonder and disbelief. “You’re crying.”
He smiled. “The bastards didn’t get my tear ducts.”
“Why did you decide to tell me? What happened?”
He snuggled her closer, inhaled her sweet smell, kissed her cheek. “I made a promise to someone.” He kissed her again. “I swore on—”
He shot straight up and slammed a hand over her mouth, the tiny crack of something in the distance… in the kitchen… stealing all his attention.
“Fuck.”
He grabbed the gun and vaulted off the bed, landing silent on bare feet.
A distinctive double snap of a pistol slide being racked echoed up the stairs.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Someone’s in the house.”
Footsteps on the hard wood of the living room. The soft music went silent.
He pointed to the other side of the bed and mouthed, “Hide!” and she rolled over, soundlessly slipping to the floor.
A boot hit the bottom stair.
Zach focused on the bedroom door, spinning through what-if scenarios for the best line of attack, every sense alive, just as if he were on a sweep mission, clearing out bombs, ready for the worst at any second.
But then he had two eyes for visual cognition. Now he had to rely on four other senses, and gut. For some reason, some stupid, inane reason, his gut wasn’t on fire.
Why not?
Had he lost his touch? His famous ability to detect any anomaly in the area? Had Sammi’s sweet, sweet body turned his mind to Jell-O?
Not that he needed to detect an anomaly. Because some motherfucker was coming upstairs with a racked pistol, and that bastard would die before anyone else did.
How would a professional attack? This was a hit man, an assassin. He’d come around slowly. But he sure as fuck wasn’t quiet. Why not? He was on the landing outside the second-floor bedroom now.
Staying in the shadows, Zach moved silently, grateful his nakedness meant he could be completely silent, and his vision was strong since he’d made himself used to dim light.
He crouched and dove to the other side of the door, getting in position, using the door as cover. When the prick took one step into the room, he was dead.
He was coming up now, three steps away. Zach didn’t dare take the chance of moving, of leaping into the hall and firing away. He could be hit first if he made so much as a single sound. He had to have the element of surprise on his side.
Although the intruder had seen the candles, the dinner, the signs of life. He knew they were up there. He turned the damn music off to warn them.
One more step.
He heard his breath now, slow and steady. A killer with no fear, no guilt, no compunction.
There was only one problem with killing him. Then they’d never know who hired this fucker, and someone out there might still be after Sam. So he had to get a name out of him before he blew his brains out.
He was on the top step now. Zach glanced at the bed, to make sure Sam stayed hidden on the other side of it, against the wall. There was no sign of her. Good girl. She wouldn’t want to see this.
A boot hit the hall and Zach braced to attack.
A man’s foot stepped over the threshold, giving Zach a view of a steel-toed boot. A military man.
Something unearthly sent a shiver up his spine, tingling at the base of his neck. Some people didn’t deserve to wear even the lowliest part of a uniform.
Just as the man entered the room, Zach lifted his bare foot and smashed the door right into the guy’s back, leaping forward to attack as he stumbled, seizing him from behind.
The other guy elbowed him soundly right in the gut, spinning to take him down, but Zach slammed him in the side of the head with the pistol, got a knee in his groin, and pulled him to the floor.
A grunted “fuck” was all he heard, as a mighty arm took a swing at Zach’s face, smashing his nose hard enough for him to feel it crack. Zach managed to get on top, a hand to his throat, but the other guy flipped him hard, knocking his head against the door. Zach kicked at his hand, and was rewarded with the satisfying sound of the other man’s gun sailing across the floor.
Zach lifted his weapon, but got a boot in the stomach, throwing him sideways to the floor. The other guy took the top, pulling back to slam a fist just as Zach managed to turn the gun toward him, his finger on the trigger. One press, one touch, and this dude was DOA.
Suddenly he was blinded by light as the room exploded in brightness. Sam had turned on the light.
“I have his gun. I can kill him.”
Caught off guard, the man jerked toward Sam’s voice, off guard enough for Zach to flip him and wrestle him to the floor.
“Don’t shoot yet,” he yelled to her. “He’s gotta tell us who…” He blinked at fiery eyes leveled at him. They looked up in shock, horror, and then disbelief. “… sent him.” He finished, blood draining from his head, dripping from his nose, splashing on the face below him.
“Jesus Christ almighty.” He wiped the blood off his face. “God damn it, man.”
“I have a straight shot, Zach.” Sam’s voice wavered, but not much.
“Don’t shoot him,” he managed to say, inching back, the realization of how close he had come to killing this man exploding like an IED in his brain.
“Why not?”
Despite the blood dropping from Zach’s nose all over his face, Gabe managed a slow, shameless grin. “ ’Cause I’m his motherfucking cousin. And, dawg, can I just say that you are one ugly sonofabitch?”
CHAPTER 16
Billy’s knees hurt, but he folded them on the hard wood anyway and closed his hands in prayer, leaning against his bed where his Bible lay open to Psalms.
“Hello, Jesus. It’s me, Mr. Shawkins.”
If Alicia were here and not down in Mississippi visting her mama, she’d laugh at that. She loved to remind Billy that Jesus would just call him Billy. But there were so many praying people named Billy, plus Jesus respected him too much to use his first name.
Jesus loved him, of that he had no doubt.
“I saw my friend Samantha Fairchild today.” He looked up, making contact with the rough plaster of the ceiling, imagining the clouds where his God lived. “She told me to get a sign that I should marry Miz Beckerman. Whatdya think, Jesus? Could you send me one?”
The slightest ping of metal against metal echoed softly down the hall.
That made Billy smile. Alicia’s kitty probably bumped something, but he’d take it as a sign anyway.
“Think I should surprise her, Jesus, or let her pick out her own ring? I’ve got two thousand dollars, as you know, right there in that drawer. She and I could go together and get whatever she…” Billy closed his mouth, certain he’d heard another sound.
What did that darn cat get into now? The little furball came with Alicia; he’d accepted that. But still, it was a troublemaker.
“Course, she’s a traditional kind of lady, and she might want—”
The soft sound halted him again. Was that the cat mewing? Or… was that the back door, waiting for the oil he’d promised Alicia he’d put in the hinges?
He froze in his prayer position, slowly laying his hands on the green chenille bedspread and very, very quietly pushing himself to a stand, aware that all the little hairs on the back of his neck were up the way they used to be at Walpole when bad trouble was brewing among the inmates.
When someone was about to get hurt, or worse.
His hands felt regrettably empty as he stood. In another life, another time, he’d be armed. No one should live in Roxbury unarmed. A man ought to have the right to protect himself.
But ex-cons didn’t have no such rights, no matter how exonerated they might be. Plus, Alicia hated guns.
Was that a footstep? Was someone in the kitchen?
He glanced to the closed window, w
hich was near enough to the ground for him to climb out. There was no other way out of the house without passing the kitchen.
The hall was dim, lit only by a night-light stuck into a socket ’cause Alicia said the cat hated the dark. And because of that, he’d left a lamp on in the living room, and the stove light in the kitchen.
A foot scuffed linoleum. What could someone steal? His two thousand dollars, his TV, his Barcalounger. Let him have it, the miserable crack addict. He wasn’t gonna die for his stuff, and they’d be caught soon enough. They’d find out what happens on the other side.
Without making a sound, he inched around the bed, considering his options. The window would stick, the closet door would squeak, the bed was too low to hide under.
He peeked down the hall again, seeing no one, but hearing the side door that led to the garage open, recognizing its own distinctive cry for WD-40. How much time did he have? He didn’t have anything of value in the garage, but then, he didn’t have much of value anywhere.
Except in that dresser drawer. His stomach turned at the thought of that hard-earned money burned up on crack or meth.
Hands shaking, he eased open the bottom drawer and slipped his hand past all his nicely folded undershorts to find the envelope. He took one more look at the window, swollen from last week’s rain and glued like day-old pigment in the color grinder. Maybe he should try anyway. As he moved the curtain, he heard a tool hit the garage floor, the sound seemingly deafening.
Fear crawled up his skin, and he squeezed the cash. Somebody might kill for this much. If he ran out the kitchen right now, he could land smack into someone holding a hammer, a wrench, a gun.
Clutching the money, he darted into the hall, stopping at the basement door and opening it as quietly as possible, then slipping into the blackness, closing the door soundlessly behind him.
On the top step, he hesitated, mildew and dust tickling his nose. He knew every hiding place down here. In the corner behind the stationary tub, in the storage area in back of the stairs. But the furnace and water heater made the best spot. Too skinny for most men, but he’d squeezed in there just a few weeks ago when the water pump was leaking.
Perfect. He moved with purpose now, determined to outwit the little prick, Jesus on his shoulder guiding him. At the bottom of the stairs, he turned left, reaching out his hands like a blind man to feel his way, bare feet on the cold cement, his eyes trained on the flickering blue light at the bottom of the furnace. It wasn’t running, of course, but the pilot light was steady.
Over his head, he heard footsteps, heavier than before, probably comfortable in the knowledge that nobody was home. He reached the water heater, shimmying his body between the warm metal of the heater and the cool of the unused furnace. If this had happened in January, he’d have burned himself just touching it.
But it was July, and Jesus was on his side. He had to suck in his stomach and turn sideways, but he maneuvered into the slot, still clutching his two grand.
If this wasn’t a sign, then what was it? Once this punk was gone, he was calling Alicia down in Natchez, telling her to come home and marry him. He had his—
The basement door opened and light doused the area. Billy crunched his teeth together to keep from sucking in a surprised breath. He hadn’t counted on the light. He could be seen, but if he was perfectly still, a thief would never even look at the furnace.
He peered through the slot he’d just entered, unable to move an inch without risking making a sound.
He couldn’t see the stairs from this angle, but heard footsteps.
As the man came around the two-by-fours nailed together to make a wall between the water heater and the laundry area, Billy backed deeper into his spot, saying the Lord’s Prayer so fast the words ran together in his head.
The intruder came closer.
Billy held his breath and closed his eyes, thanking Jesus for his dark pajamas and black skin. Tonight, right now, he wanted to be a shadow.
“Hello, Mr. Shawkins.”
Billy’s eyes popped open, gasping as the man stood inches from him, just outside the opening.
“I got money,” Billy said, slowly raising the envelope. “That’s all I got. Take it and leave.”
“No, no, Mr. Shawkins.” He sounded disappointed and a little disgusted as he raised a pistol to his face. “I don’t want your money.”
“What do you want?”
He grinned. “The same thing you do. Revenge on Samantha Fairchild.”
Billy frowned. Samantha? “No, I don’t. I’ve made my peace with her. I don’t want to hurt her.”
“Oh, I’m not gonna hurt her. You are.”
No, he was not. “Well, I don’t know where she is. She was here today, but she left. I swear to God, I swear on the Bible, I swear on the name of Jesus in Heaven, I don’t know where she is.”
The man sighed, a baseball cap pulled so low it was impossible to see his hair or eyes, just a sharp jaw and tiny teeth. “Well, then we’re just gonna have to get her back here, aren’t we?”
“I don’t know how.”
He inched the pistol farther into the slot. “You better figure it out, Mr. Shawkins. ’Cause I’m not leaving this house without a dead body behind me. It’s gonna be you or it’s gonna be her. I’d say… she owes you.”
Sam had finally fallen asleep to the sound of the men’s deep voices, lulling her into a secure slumber. No one was going to get her with those two on the watch. But when she woke, Zach had a muscular arm wrapped around her waist and once again, he slept with his cheek resting on her hair.
She didn’t move, no matter how much she wanted to, knowing instinctively that the position gave him so much comfort and relief that even slipping out of bed to go to the bathroom would hurt him.
She closed her eyes and listened to him breathe, letting the sheer wonder of being in his arms float over her. The heat of their entwined legs. The pressure of his hips against her backside. Zach Angelino, back in her bed. Back in her heart.
Oh, Sammi. Big mistake.
Or was it?
She pushed away the worry and wallowed in the bliss.
She heard a noise in the kitchen downstairs, and she pictured Gabriel Rossi, the intruder she and Zach had damn near killed. A little shorter than Zach, but no less muscular, Gabe moved like an animal, laughed from his heart, and swore like the devil’s best friend.
And like the whole Rossi-Angelino family tree, Gabe was gorgeous. His hair was buzzed so short it revealed a beautifully shaped skull and highlighted wolflike blue eyes under slashes of black brow. His neck was thicker than Zach’s, his jaw less defined, his smile so fast and easy it was infectious.
He never said what he was doing, why he was there, or how long he’d stay, at least not while Sam was awake. She picked up enough of his nonverbals to know it was better not to ask.
Water ran in the sink, and she heard the back door open and close. She tensed a little, ready to get up.
“He’s not leaving,” Zach whispered into her hair. “And neither are you.”
“He’s our guest. We should make him coffee.”
He snorted softly, releasing her hand to explore her body. “You were asleep when I came in.” His erection stiffened against her backside as a dish dinged on the sink in the kitchen, the sound floating up the stairs and making guilt outweigh desire.
She slid her hair out from underneath him, earning a soft grunt of disappointment. Turning, she smiled at him, pleased that he’d never put his patch back on. He could wear it in public, but for her, he didn’t need to hide.
“I’m going to the bathroom; then I’m going to see if he needs anything.”
“Oh, he needs something,” Zach said. “But you can’t give it to him.”
“Meaning?”
“He’s going on a mission in the next day or so. What he needs is good luck, great timing, and eyes in the back of his head. Fortunately, he has two out of three.”
She slipped out of bed and grabbed her sleep
pants, stepping into them and straightening her tank top.
“So he’ll only be here for a day or two?”
“If that. He might leave this morning after…” His voice trailed off.
“After what?”
He grinned and rolled over, reaching for his patch. “Go get some coffee and I’ll tell you what my spook cousin and I cooked up while you were sleeping. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
Still curious what he had in mind when she got downstairs, she glanced around the living room. The only sign that someone had slept there was an afghan she’d never seen before neatly folded over the back of the sofa. Their dinner dishes were cleaned, too.
The kitchen was spotless, too, except for a backpack and a roll of something that might be a sleeping bag tied under it. Coffee brewed on the machine, a single cup washed and rinsed on a dishtowel that had been folded with military precision. She tiptoed to the door and inched the blinds to reveal a heavily overcast morning.
Gabe was on the grass doing one-handed push-ups. Fast. Without a break. His white T-shirt was drenched in sweat, camo pants low on his hips.
She couldn’t help watching.
After what had to be over a hundred one-armed pumps, he bounded to his feet, cracked his neck left to right, and looked toward the threatening skies. He closed his eyes, made the sign of the cross, and marched toward the door. A religious man with Satan’s swearing skills?
“Morning, Sam,” he said as she opened the door for him, not at all surprised to see her. “Did you count? I lost track at one seventy-five.”
“I lost track at twenty-something. Do you do that every day?”
He plucked at the sweat-drenched shirt and grinned at the sucking sound it made as it separated from his skin. “Hell, yeah. Five A.M., rain or shine. Romeo still asleep?”
She laughed softly. “He’s on his way down. I understand you two are cooking something up.”
“Just a felony. We figure we know a good soon-to-be lawyer.”
A felony? “Three years until I get my degree, and probably another to pass the bar.” She poured a cup of coffee, then added some milk. “So you better not get caught, or get a real lawyer.”